A King Uncaged Read online

  "It shan't have gone far yet," James said.

  A few minutes later they cornered a huge boar, easily twice the weight of any man, with tusks as long as James’ forearm. Dismounted, they both planted their lance butts on the ground. James stared into tiny, golden eyes filled with fury at their encroachment. It bellowed and charged. He held onto his lance for his life when it hit, jarring him to his teeth. His arms shook, and he desperately fought to keep to his feet. The lance was sank deep in the boar's chest, but the creature shook its head, blood spraying as it tried to rip him with its tusks. Henry shouted for permission to finish it and James shouted back, "By the Holy rood, aye!"

  Percy ran at the boar and flung his whole weight to force his lance through its neck.

  When it fell, its weight jerked both of them on top of it. James’ laugh was a little shaky when he scrambled to his feet and wiped splatters of blood from his face. The servants heaved the boar onto a pack horse.

  Percy slapped James’ shoulder, and they shared deep drinks from a wine bag before they mounted and headed back for the castle. When they rode out of the shadows of the first gate, the bailey yard was full of upheaval and noise. Chests and boxes were being unloaded from wagons. Men-at-arms were shouting. Horses were being unsaddled and led to the stables.

  A nobleman in black, dust-covered armor and surcoat was standing in the middle shouting commands. Myrton stood beside him.

  "At last, they must have arrived. Now we can finish this business." Percy jumped from the saddle and tossed his reins to a stable boy. "Have that boar taken to the kitchens. We worked for that meat."

  James snorted. "I thought for a moment I might not live to be crowned after all." He nodded to Percy, who was turning to head for the castle. But he had to agree. At last…

  He strode toward the nobleman, frowning. And then he laughed, carried back years and climbing to the top of Bass Rock, to a boy teaching him to roast birds' eggs and watching the flight of ten thousand gannets. Robert Lauder. There were a few speckles of gray in his hair now, but it was he without doubt.

  Robbie turned when he heard James’ laugh and dashed forward. A few feet away he sank onto his knees to kiss James’ hand. "Your Grace."

  "Robert Lauder." Another laugh broke from James’ chest. He urged Lauder to his feet. "By all that's holy, it's a delight to see your face. And now lord of Edrington and Bass, they say."

  Robbie Lauder's face was split with a wide grin, and he was shaking his head in evident wonder. "As foolish as it sounds, I somehow expected to see the boy I once kent."

  James threw his arms wide. "Not quite." He looked around at the chaos of the yard. "Where are the others?"

  "I told them I'd oversee the unloading while they prepared for meeting the English. I prefer to see things done aright. My brother is eager to speak with you before the negotiations begin."

  "As I am to him. Who else came?"

  "James Douglas of Belvenie, Abbot Patrick of Cambuskenneth, Sir Patrick Dunbar of Bele, John Hales and Archdeacon Borthwick of Glasgow."

  "So Dunbar stayed away." James nodded thoughtfully. The man was too close to Murdoch to trust, so he'd hardly be missed. Then he paused to look his old friend over from head to foot and was shaken again by a short laugh. "I too thought of you still as a lad. You gladden my eyes, Robbie. Truly you do."

  Robert motioned to Myrton. "Oversee that our men are properly barracked, Myrton, and I'll show His Grace to my brother."

  Within the castle, they climbed the stairs and entered the solar unannounced, to find the bishop standing by a narrow window for the little breeze. That Robert and the bishop were brothers was evident in a glance. William Lauder, only a decade older than James, was tall and thin with piercing blue eyes and a beak of a nose, but in spite of his fine robes, he looked worn and weary, his face thin and cheeks hallow. He was alone, for which James was thankful. They had much to discuss, and the others were too close to Murdoch to be trusted.

  "Your Grace." Bishop Lauder grasped James’ hand to kiss it and James gripped his arm.

  "You had a weary trip, I fear."

  "Somewhat, but that matters not. What matters is that we wrung permission to negotiate from Murdoch. Though he and his sons and other nobles are afeart what might come of your return, and well might they be. Eighteen years first Albany and now Murdoch and his friends have had to pick Scotland clean like buzzards on a corpse."

  James gave a sharp nod. "I've had your letters and Wardlaw's. This is no news to me. But if there's to be a reckoning, first I must return home."

  Bishop Lauder wiped his face that had paled, and James realized the man needed to sit. The long journey from Glasgow had obviously wearied him beyond his strength, so James sat and waved the two to chairs. "Indeed. Murdoch is more incompetent by the day, and no one can control his sons. It's impossible to tell you which of them is worse."

  "Have you seen the English demands?" Robbie asked.

  "They mentioned seventy thousand English pounds, and I told them that we cannot possibly meet so large a payment, not even in payments over several years. The English are ready to sell me like a plump goose at market, but I cannot bargain with them myself. It would hardly be seemly. I know that the Bishop of Durham has sums of the cost of my…" James clenched his jaw. "Of my keep in their so kind care these eighteen years. I believe they will lessen their demands to the total of that, but every item must be pursued because their greed will see no bounds. Of that you may be sure. Forbye they'll want hostages as surety."

  The bishop nodded thoughtfully. "Have they proffered a list?"

  "Not to me, and it seems to me that we could offer them one. Forbye, it could be one to our advantage," James said with a smile. "If we are to have a number of our nobles in English hands, I'd see that as few as can be should be my allies and as many my enemies as possible."

  "Bishop Wardlaw had thought of that and we put together a list, not too obviously favoring your allies but with many who have robbed your treasury and profited from your absence. I have such a list ready to offer."

  James’ smile widened. "And when it comes to paying the ransom, I'll be in no great hurry to see the return of my enemies."

  Robbie laughed. "A wise policy, Sire."

  "They also want a truce and no more troops to be sent to France. If, as I heard, the Douglas and Buchan are raising a new army to take to France that may prove a problem."

  "We expected that. Suppose we only guarantee that once you are in your kingdom, the truce goes into effect and no more troops are to leave. You can hardly be expected to prevent departures whilst you are in England, after all. With the offer of a seven-year truce both at land and sea, that should suffice, although at first I will offer only four years, which they would never agree to."

  "They are hard bargainers. Be prepared for them to try to wring every groat and concession, but—" James gazed through the slit window into the bright afternoon sun. "Aye, I believe if you make it appear we are conceding much and reluctantly, they will agree. And Bishop Beaufort has already agreed—most privily—that the sum of my bride's dowry will be deducted from my ransom, though the dowry is almost shamefully low for so great a lady."

  "Beaufort?" Robbie leaned his elbows on his knees to look more closely at James.

  "It is agreed between the two of us that if you ask for a marriage treaty between me and an English lady of royal stock, they will agree to discuss my will in the matter, which he kens well. So he told me he has instructed the negotiators."

  "A lady has been named between you, then?" Bishop Lauder asked. "And he has agreed?"

  "Aye. Indeed it has. And he has."

  Chapter Three

  February 12, 1424

  Joan smoothed the skirt of her gown, the comeliest she had ever owned. Everything she wore was new. Her smock was of fine linen, the under-gown of the finest wool to protect against February's chill. Of a deep sapphire blue as her mother had insisted, it was snug to her hips and then flared to the ground. The outer surcoa
t, a paler blue, was samite with shimmering gold thread running through; its deep V-neck showed the darker gown beneath.

  Queen Catherine was officially helping her to dress but seemed to look through them as though they weren't there. The queen turned and wandered to the window. Pulling a comb through her hair one last time, Joan's mother smoothed it down her back to her waist. She made a little smacking sound with her lips and said, "Soon I may never see you again, daughter."

  Joan turned and pressed a quick kiss to her mother's cheek, but she had no idea what to say.

  "I have no right to be sad." Her mother shook her head and smiled, although it looked a bit false. "How many mothers have their daughters with them so long?"

  "They tried to convince me to marry enough times. Now I think my uncle may now be glad of my being such the stubborn girl he always called me."

  Her mother shook out her veil, silk so fine it seemed no more than a wisp. "Henry was too fond to force you." Her marriage had been fiercely argued since she was fourteen and her betrothed died. Then Joan swore they'd have to drag her screaming to the altar. She'd thought a few times that Henry might do so, but he'd given way to her entreaties. Joan lowered her head so the veil could be settled over her hair and a narrow gold circlet put on her brow to hold it in place. Her mother kissed her forehead. "Beautiful daughter. They'll love you, but—" her voice broke. "Sending you to live with the wild Scots. It is a hard thing."

  Leaving behind the civilized ways of the English was frightening enough that when she allowed herself to consider it, her heart beat like mad, but James would be with her. All would be well. She was sure of it. She held her mother's hand and turned to look into the mirror that her little sister, Margaret, was holding up for her, eyes wide. "You look so elegant, Joan. I hope I look so when I wed."

  "You will, Meg." In the mirror, her mouth curved into a smile. Meg was right that she looked elegant. She squeezed her mother's hand. "All will be well. I promise."

  She hardly felt the stairs under her feet as she hurried down to the bailey yard. Her father should have been the one to lead her mount to the church, but he was long dead and her two elder brothers prisoners in France, so it was her youngest brother Edmund, a rangy boy of eighteen, still with a few spots on his sullen face, who lifted her by the waist and seated her in the saddle. The cream-colored mare was a wedding gift from her uncle. It was a beauty, and she touched its mane that was braided with sprigs of lily, bishop's lace, and roses.

  "Ready?" Edmund scowled up at her.

  She touched his shoulder. "Don't be so angry." She couldn't help that it had been the Scots who had captured their brothers in France. It seemed unfair for him to blame James, and they had little time left to make peace. "Can't you be happy for me?"

  "Are you? Happy?" he said as he took the bridle and led the way through the gate and onto the street.

  "I am." She smiled up at the watery February sunlight. The throng that lined the London Bridge was cheering as the mare pranced daintily across. Banners flapped overhead, held up by the men-at-arms, marching in a line on each side of the party; the queen, her mother, and other guests followed. The veil made the world look hazy and dreamlike.

  Beneath the massive square bell tower, the grounds of the Church of St. Mary Overie bustled with the people of London, happy to cheer for a royal wedding, even that of a Scot. James stood before the arched doors, shining like a Roman god in his cloth-of-gold doublet beneath a cloak of crimson velvet blazoned with the Lion Rampant of Scotland. Beside him stood her uncle, Henry Beaufort, the bishop. A rushing sound in her ears pulsed in a strange counterpoint to the shouts.

  His face solemn, James strode forward to meet her as Edmund lifted her down from the saddle. He took her hand to lead her to the doors where they would be wed, in the open as was custom so the crowd could witness their joining. Everything seemed even hazier, and time heaved oddly along while her stomach fluttered as though filled with riotous butterflies. The buzz in her head confused the words of the ceremony. She could barely follow what James said in response to her uncle, but then it was her turn. She took a deep, calming breath. She swallowed hard and managed to keep her voice even to say, "I, Joan de Beaufort, take thee, James Stewart, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us depart, according to God’s holy ordinance. And thereto I pledge thee my troth."

  The bishop took the ring and said a quick prayer over the gold band with its square emerald. James retrieved it from him and lifted her left hand. Her head spun, and she sucked in a breath. She would not faint at her wedding and have her new husband think her a weak goose.

  "With this ring I thee wed: This gold and silver I thee give, with my body I thee worship, and withal my worldly goods I thee endow." He slipped the ring a little way onto each finger, saying in turn, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." With the last phrase, he slid it onto her ring finger.

  Cheers and whistles nearly drowned out her uncle’s closing blessing. People surged forward and a fresh-faced acolyte held up an alms bowl. James slipped his arm around her waist, and she welcomed the support as she scooped up a handful of silver pennies. She suddenly felt giddy and a laugh bubbled up. She flung the coins to scatter them into the crowd. They shouted her name and scrambled for the coins. James flung a handful high over the heads of the mob. She grabbed more and tossed them until the bowl was empty. She smiled up at James, and through the mist of her veil she saw him look down at her, his large, piercing blue eyes shining.

  She couldn't help softly laughing as James led her into the church.

  Quickly as the wedding had passed, the Mass dragged as though time had slowed to a crawl. In the cool darkness of the church, she breathed in the pleasant scent of beeswax candles and frankincense and tried not to twitch with impatience. While her uncle droned on through the service, her mind wandered to the banquet that awaited them. Was the food sufficiently elegant? Her mother had assured her it was. Had they planned enough minstrels and tumblers? Later, for the first time since returning from France, she and James would at last be alone, and the thought made her heart race. The bedding revels were less to her taste. Poor Queen Catherine had been near tears at the shouts and rude instructions when Henry's companions tossed him into bed with her. Still, it must be borne for what came after.

  At one point, her uncle read from the scripture of Ruth: "Do not be against me, as if I would abandon you and go away; for wherever you will go, I will go, and where you will stay, I will stay. Your people are my people…" It jerked Joan's mind back into the dimness of the church. Ruth had gone to an alien land. Joan was no Bible scholar, but that she remembered. Ruth had taken strangers as her people. Suddenly, she felt cold at the thought of a life amongst people she didn't know who might hate her. James must have felt her tremble, for he pressed her fingers. She took a deep breath. James’ people would be hers. She was sure of it. She must be brave and strong.

  Chapter Four

  They rode side by side to Bishop Beaufort's Southwark Palace, a short ride from the church for the wedding feast. James could not keep his eyes off Joan, though he tried not to be too obvious. A man besotted was considered shameful, but how could it not be seen? He had been besotted since the first day he saw her walking below his window in the garden of Windsor.

  He took her on his arm into the great hall beneath beams of afternoon sun let in through the enormous, high rose window.

  Pages scampered, strewing a scattering roses petals before them. Henry Beaufort, now out of his vestments for the Mass, had donned fine, deep-purple velvet robes. For the first time in his life, he bowed to James with a smile that James found grotesque and said, "Welcome, Your Grace." He took his niece's hand and kissed it. Then he ceremoniously led them onto the dais and to the seats of honor at its center. Queen Catherine embraced Joan and kissed her on each cheek. Young Edmund did as well, although he looked as though he had bitten int
o a sour pomegranate. But young Margaret was bouncing on her toes as she hurried to fiercely hug her sister. No one was so eager to embrace James. Welcoming the Scot they had so long despised seemed a draught of bitter medicine from the looks on their faces.

  After a fraught moment, his new good mother, Lady Margaret, took each of his hands and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. "Your Grace," she murmured. James brushed fingers over his moustache to hide a smirk at their pain at being forced to finally give him his proper address.

  When he and Joan had taken their seats, Bishop Beaufort remained standing to give his blessing to the feast. James remembered that the bishop didn't usually drone on forever over it because he had been much too nervous to break his fast earlier and feared soon his stomach might grumble. He glanced at Joan, who was smiling thoughtfully at her hands folded modestly in her lap, and wondered if she had been nervous as well. He had felt her tremble several times, but her voice had been steady for the vows. Lady Margaret was at his side, and the thought of managing a long conversation with her would have soured the feast, but surely he could be forgiven for concentrating on his new bride.

  He realized the bishop was looking at him with his caterpillar-like eyebrows raised. He must have completed the blessing. James stood and held out his goblet to be filled. "To Lady Joan, my bride, soon Queen of the Scots!"

  Everyone jumped to their feet. "Lady Joan!" the filled hall shouted. "Lady Joan! Lady Joan!" Hundreds of goblets rang together. James emptied his cup and had it refilled. Sitting, he put it into Joan's hands to share with her. A sly smile curved her lips as she turned it to drink from the same place his lips had touched, and his face heated. This feast would last hours, but it couldn't be over soon enough for him. At last, he would be alone with his bride.